


Give And Take

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-17 07:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9312176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: John and Harold develop trust. Set at the end of season one after John's discovery of Grace.





	1. Chapter 1

There were a lot of good reasons to give John Reese a decent place to live. The apartment was meant as a gift but it was an admittedly self-serving one. Tracking John through the series of cheap hotels he chose to inhabit when left to his own devices, had taxed Harold’s ingenuity and physical limitations to the limit. He now owned more of those properties than he cared to admit, finding it the easiest way to keep tabs on his associate. Not just strenuous, over time it had become too depressing for Harold to see him in a succession of stark, dingy rooms.

Harold studied the monitor with multiple views of John’s loft before shutting down the library for the night.

Experience had taught him that he couldn’t fix people. Loving them wasn’t enough. He didn’t dwell on his failures but they were there, invisible fixtures of his psyche. Nathan’s drinking. His father’s illness. His mother’s death.

Grace was the exception. She’d needed no fixing. In the machine’s terms, she was presented to him as a person without anomalies. She had given him a rare and blessed opportunity to create happiness for someone. The sacrifice he’d made to keep her safe … he’d make it again in a heartbeat.

John was backlit by low light. He tended to keep the place dimly lit, difficult to see into despite its massive windows. Intentionally, no doubt. He must know, or at the very least suspect that he was being watched.

Their cat and mouse game of surveillance was an ongoing struggle between them. The give and take of trust. The testing of one another’s skills. John’s discovery of Grace had demonstrated his formidable abilities. As disturbed as Harold was by John finding her, it was a matter of great significance to him that he’d treated her so gently. It calmed the mistrust that had surfaced between them in the Sarah Jennings case; Harold’s fear that John had slipped the leash and would kill his prey.

John was leaning against the kitchen counter in near darkness, arms crossed, contemplating an unopened bottle of whiskey. He usually stood right there to eat from a takeout container but the bag he’d brought home that night had only the bottle.

Harold suspected this standoff with the whiskey was an after-effect of Sarah Jennings, days past but apparently still tormenting him. The abuse of a married woman by her violent husband must have pushed him into dangerous territory, whether John could admit it or not. It confused Harold. Days had passed peacefully since then. John had shown his gentlest side with Grace, leading Harold to believe him in the end, that he didn’t need to be shielded from his so-called sensitivities. Now this.

Harold found himself reaching to activate their phone line and his heartbeat quickened. He watched John move, straighten, touch his ear, and he heard the distinctive voice.

“Finch.”

“I was wondering, Mr Reese … if you’d meet me for dinner.”

There was a long pause and Harold felt a whisper of unease as the shadowy figure turned toward the wall of windows as if trying to see him.

“Sorry … I just ate.”

He probably knows, that I know he’s lying, Harold thought. Relating to John was as complex as a chess match in some ways and in others as simple as luring a bird with seed in an open palm.

“I feel like cooking, Mr Reese. By the time the food’s ready you might find you have an appetite.” Another long silence. Harold waited for the strategist in John to study the board, to weigh his move, and for the wild creature in him to trust the outstretched hand.

“Cooking for me on our first date, Finch. I’m flattered.” Harold was relieved to hear John’s mocking, flirtatious tone. This was a mode of his that had annoyed Harold in the beginning. Over time he’d understood it was one of the rare ways he expressed affection. 

“I’ll text you the address," he said, hoping this move was the right one. 

 

***

The man wants company for dinner, John thought, stepping into the shower. Fool, he castigated himself. Why bother showering, like it actually was a date. He sighed as the hot water hit him and tried to relax. Obviously, there wasn’t much point in cleaning himself up for Harold Finch. That much had become crystal clear; clear as Grace’s beautiful eyes, vivid as her lovely red hair.

Give it up. Reality’s a bitch.

Soaping his dick he was tempted to jerk off; what he saw in his head didn’t have to be real. He was used to the divide. But the disappointment was too fresh, the loss of imagined possibilities … too painful.

John was used to compartmentalizing. He was used to living in layers and protecting the deepest ones. He’d thought it was conceivable that Harold Finch, by far the most brilliant person he’d ever known, was capable of penetrating those layers. He’d flattered himself that someone as attractive as he knew himself to be would be a gift to Harold.

The apartment. He’d imagined it was a token of affection, a sign that the man might be moving toward … something. But then, all along, he’d assumed that Harold was gay and had in turn perceived this truth about him.


	2. Chapter 2

“You live here, Finch?”

“Sometimes,” he answered, and then reflected. “Fairly often.” He poured a modest amount of wine into two glasses.

It was a long time since Harold had called any one address, home. This townhouse on the edge of the Village was a frequent refuge. Far enough from the home he’d shared with Grace to be safe but close enough in distance and style to feel there was something they shared.

It was backed by an alley that had once provided access for carriages and offered an excellent hidden entry. What had once been a stable was now a garage. Harold had provided John with the entry code and directed him to come up the back stairs that led from the garage into the kitchen.

Before John arrived, he’d tried to imagine how his home would look to his guest, mentally preparing to be scrutinized. The building had been remodeled before he bought it, the old kitchen updated to suit a modern chef in some ways Harold might not have chosen for himself. He’d have preferred less stainless steel, a bit more warmth, but the room retained a historic flavor that made it comfortable enough.

Personal details? There weren’t many. The eating area, a small mahogany table by the tall back windows (half-covered by the original wooden shutters) probably reflected his personality more than anything else about the room. The table’s surface was dinged and scarred here and there but it had an inner glow Harold found soothing. It was set with china that Harold had bought because it reminded him of the dishes in his childhood home. Ironic that this set was quite expensive while the ones his mother had stocked in their kitchen had come as free gifts, a plate at a time, from boxes of powdered laundry detergent.

It will be fine, he thought.

Now John was taking everything in, absorbing it all. Part of Harold, so accustomed to privacy, felt as naked as an opened oyster. At the same time, seeing John in this setting, looking fresh from a shower and beautifully dressed in one of his new suits, was immensely gratifying. We can do this, he told himself, busying himself with the finishing touches.

“No fixed address,” John said.

“No,” he admitted. “Not for some time. But … it is my home as much as any place is.” He didn’t want what he was offering by inviting John here to be diminished.

“Dinner smells good.”

Harold smiled, tossing the salad.

“I confess I’m somewhat familiar with your taste from your takeout choices.” Spicy food, fragrant with garlic. Harold hadn’t stinted on either the garlic or spice in the pasta he’d prepared.

“The apron is a nice touch.” Harold could hear the amusement in his voice. He glanced up at him and saw the half smile that was so effective in softening John’s features. It was a look Harold particularly liked on him, lightening his intensity and warming what could be so cold in his eyes. He was taking off his jacket and Harold was glad to see him making himself comfortable.

He put the salad on the table.

“Have a seat, John.” He stepped away to take off the apron. The kitchen felt warm and the food did smell good. Harold was hungry and very happy with his company for dinner.

It was John who held out his glass for Harold to toast with his own.

“To the cook,” he said. Harold clinked the offered glass.

“To … first dates.” This toast earned him a slightly puzzled look. Harold filed that reaction away. Clearly he didn’t have John’s touch for this kind of teasing. No matter. The man’s brow had smoothed and he was applying himself to the salad with evident pleasure. Harold broke off a chunk of warm bread and handed it to him and John looked appreciative.

It wasn’t necessary that the evening be a thundering success, Harold thought. Only that John was present, he was eating and appeared to have rejoined the land of the living.

Harold had tracked and observed the man for a very long time. He had agonized over the unintended ways his own actions had affected the arc of John Reese’s life.  


Luring him back from the depths he’d sunk to after New Rochelle had been a challenge but the rewards were proving greater than he could have imagined. He considered the task far from complete but took comfort in the fact that John was no longer ragged, no longer homeless. In too many ways, however, he still made Harold think of an abused rescue animal and he questioned how deep the changes were. Off the streets, groomed and sheltered, but … damaged.

The desire to help him had come before his decision to employ him and that decision hadn’t been an easy one. He wasn’t half as confident as he’d tried to appear when he hired John. There was a terrifying moment he still recalled with a shudder, facing those icy eyes with a choke-hold across his throat. It was his worst fear played out in living color, that hiring someone as troubled as John was like asking an untamed lion to caretake a zoo.

As it turned out, John was not only the best at this job, he was so far superior to his predecessors as to be in a class of his own.

 

At the moment he appeared in much better shape than he had just hours before. There was a continental ease to his movements as he used a fork and spoon to gather up a healthy mouthful of pasta. His brilliant eyes briefly closed as he appreciated the flavor. Harold drank in the sight.

“It’s really good, Finch.”

“Thank you.”

A flush of pleasure at the compliment warmed Harold’s cheeks and he thought he might be feeling the effects of the wine. He cleared his throat and looked down at his own plate, looking for words to cover what felt like a blush. “It’s a simple recipe but it generally turns out well.”

There was something satisfying about seeing someone enjoy food you’d prepared for them … but Harold couldn’t remember it ever making him blush before. Perhaps it was more than the food; the satisfaction of seeing John in this context after witnessing his earlier despair. Or it could be, Harold thought, that it had been so long since he himself had experienced the intimate pleasure of cooking for someone that it made his feelings more intense. In any event, he thought he should stop watching John eat.

Rather quickly, he forgot this resolve and began to study him again, unable to resist the sight. The man was really so handsome, so easy on the eyes. To watch him eat, to see him raise the wineglass to his lips was so pleasurable. Harold got caught in the act by the eyes meeting his over the rim of the glass and again felt his cheeks grow warm.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying the meal, Mr Reese.”

 

***

 

Finch offering to reveal where he lived; John was suspicious, but drawn in. The guy was as secretive, as paranoid as anyone John had ever known, and that was saying a lot. He’d known hard core, black-ops veterans who were easier to track than Harold Finch. His boss wasn’t just cautious, he was fucking brilliant; giant steps ahead of every move. John wasn’t even a hundred percent sure that he’d actually found Grace Hendricks on his own and not been led to her by deliberate clues.

All things considered, he couldn’t resist the possibility that Harold meant to show him where he lived. There was always what he thought of as the “eggs Benedict factor.” Harold was capable of revealing an intimate detail when least expected.

And there was … the rest of it. The whole fucked up rest of it. The reason he showed up early in the morning at the library (except when deliberately varying his timing to appear less eager) and stayed late, reading any book that came to hand.

He couldn’t resist Harold’s presence any more than a starving plant can turn away from the sun. Mostly, he quietly absorbed all the light he could get, but he was always thinking about ways to get more. What he wanted was hard to describe, even to himself. He knew it wasn’t the furtive connection he’d experienced with other men in the army (though there were some undeniably warm sticky details.) He wanted to feel as important to Harold as Harold was to him and he wanted to feel it while being touched by him. Touched in ways that the existence of Grace Hendricks told him were very unlikely to happen. 

Approaching the texted address, John thought it was possible he actually was about to see Harold’s home. The neighborhood seemed right. It breathed money in a quiet, unobtrusive way. Understatement, no ostentation in the careful historic preservation. It would make sense for Harold Finch to live somewhere like this … but it would also make sense for him to use such an obvious setting for another layer of disguise. Don’t overthink, he told himself.

A short flight of stairs and the mouth-watering aromas of garlic and butter led him into a gleaming, spacious kitchen. In the midst of it, was Harold. He was still wearing a tie but no jacket, his shirtsleeves neatly folded up his forearms and a white chef’s apron tied at his waist. It had the soft look of having been worn many times. Harold’s smile was genuine, if a little shy. That look, the shyness told John more than any detail about the room. Harold might be a master at creating false identities and weaving protective webs, but his essential nature was open and honest. It was part of what made him so ridiculously appealing.

“You live here, Finch?” he asked, though he was already believing it to be true.

“Sometimes,” he answered, and then after a pause, “fairly often.”

“No fixed address,” John suggested.

“No. Not for some time. But,” he looked thoughtful, considering his words. “It is my home as much as any place is.” This made sense to John.

He pictured Grace entering such a scene, finding her fiancé cooking dinner. Would she hug him from behind as he worked at the counter, would she interrupt him, sliding into his arms to be kissed or just offer a kiss on the cheek. It was all too easy to envision Harold with her.

Stop, just … stop, he warned himself. Harold was pouring wine. He seemed very much present, here with him, not dwelling on some past evening with … someone else.

“To the cook,” John toasted him when they were both seated at the table. The food smelled wonderful and he was starving. He needed to settle down, tuck in and keep his mind focused on appreciating what he had, not what he wanted.

“To … first dates,” Harold said.

The caress of affection in his voice gave John pause, rekindling a glow that in the past months had led his mind down roads it shouldn’t wander anymore.

The signals were tempting.

John had loved Jessica, he’d performed well with her, effortlessly, even though he’d harbored other hidden and powerful desires. Their relationship had connected him to the world, a normal world. Now he was asking himself if it could have been the same for Harold with Grace. The answer was no. He knew it the same way he’d known Harold’s vulnerable smile was real. Harold wasn’t like him, not wrapped in layers of darkness. 

John applied himself to eating. The pasta was perfectly done. The sauce was heaven and he was hungrily making his way through the warm bread.

“It’s really good, Finch,” he told him, coming up for air. And there was that look again, the one that made John want to shed his clothes and offer every inch of skin to Harold’s eyes.

“Thank you,” Harold said. 

He’s blushing, John thought, and he’s trying to hide it.

Under the table, under the pristine, white cloth napkin spread over his lap, John’s body responded in a rush. He felt the energy of Harold’s attention travel through him and center in his cock. The gaze touched on his hands, moved up his chest, rested on his mouth. When John answered the gaze with his own, meeting his eyes, the man colored up again and muttered some pleasant nonsense about enjoying the meal.

Was it possible that Harold Finch could have reached his fifties and not know his own desire? John was thinking the answer was, yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to KiraNovember, I had to question whether or not it was possible Harold meant for Grace to be found. I still lean toward no, but the idea is intriguing and it makes sense to me that John would entertain the same question.


	3. Chapter 3

Harold lingered in the kitchen after John left. There wasn’t much that needed doing — John had cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher before going, while Harold was putting the food away.

He brewed himself a decaf Volutto with a generous amount of steamed milk. Not a coffee drinker in any traditional sense, he’d learned from Grace to enjoy espresso. At night, a decaffeinated shot in frothy milk was a drink they’d often shared. The ritual of preparing it usually made him feel closer to her but tonight he was distracted.

He looked around and considered where John was most likely to have planted bugs. Seeing a grid of his guest’s movements in his mind’s eye, he knew a thorough search would require his scanner. There were too many places a man of John’s capabilities could hide something.

Harold shrugged off the concern, tomorrow would be soon enough to sort it out. There were no secrets here.

“If you’re listening, Mr Reese,” he said aloud. “I apologize for offering very little of interest to hear.”

He sat down in the chair where John had sat and ran his fingers along the underside of the table, encountering nothing. He sat back, hands around the warm drink, still feeling the strange spell of the evening. 

There was a frisson to the memory of watching John eat, seeing his face lit with pleasure. He became aware that he was dwelling on it.

It’s possible I spend too much time alone, he thought. Solitude was second nature and had been as long as he could remember.

The remote location of his childhood home, the absence of a mother to ferry him around to friends’ houses, he supposed these things had played a role in accustoming him to being alone. He’d had a few friends in high school but was always at the fringe, not at the heart of a group of boys.

He’d been so young when his hacking skills triggered unimaginable consequences. A baby of seventeen, he thought now. The first of endless false identities.

Fabricating a scholarship to MIT was worth the challenge. It was a lifeline and it was a revelation. His credentials and school records may have been falsified, but his intellect and interests were very real and these qualities drew people to him for the first time in his life. The most aggressive (and charming) of those who were drawn to him was Nathan Ingram. Nathan bent the rules to become a freshman’s roommate in his junior year, just to get close to him. He powered his way through Harold’s reticence and his secrets to forge a friendship that lasted until his death.

Solitude and secrecy were indeed central to his life, he thought, but through all the years of hiding, he had never really been alone. He’d had Nathan. The man had known him to a depth that even Grace had never had the chance to know him. 

It dawned on him, with an ache of missing him, that for the first time since he’d lost Nathan, he might have a friend. It was stunning, really. A simple thing and yet profoundly moving. It made sense of how deeply he was affected by the events and tenor of this evening with John.

The two men were so very different. It would never have occurred to him that they might fill a similar role in his life. But each one was trustworthy in his own way, he thought. And for whatever reason, what the two of them shared was a kind of dogged determination to be close to him. Harold was at a loss to understand why exactly, but he welcomed it.

A memory surfaced as he examined the puzzle of what, if anything, Nathan Ingram and John Reese had in common; a memory that was surprising and vivid.

It was early in his friendship with Nathan, nearing finals of his first semester. They were sharing a tiny, overheated dorm room. He’d been incredibly stressed, hyper aware of the necessity to prove himself worthy of his full scholarship. Under the pressures of little sleep and high anxiety, his body had its own reactions to the tension, including very inappropriate erections during late night study sessions with Nathan.

In a general way he’d been dazzled by his handsome, popular roommate, and finding his body so overwrought, he wondered what it meant. Unable to stop worrying about it, in the middle of an all-nighter he’d confessed his fear to him.

How had he forgotten this? As clear as day the words came back to him, “I’m afraid I might have sexual feelings for you. Do you think it means I’m gay?”

The body memory was there in an instant; sitting at his cramped little desk in front of a word processor the size of a small television. Swiveling his chair to look at Nathan, he’d steadied his shaky hands on his knees. Nathan was sprawled on his bed, surrounded by books. He’d looked at Harold a little blankly as he digested what he said. And then … he’d smiled in a kind of self-satisfied, knowing way.

“Of course you want me, Harold. Who wouldn’t? Any time the urge to blow me hits you, just help yourself.” He’d waved at his crotch.

Harold’s horrified reaction had made Nathan dissolve in laughter. He wasn’t sure why his friend found it so funny but the tension was definitely broken.

“The look on your face …” Nathan gasped, wiping his eyes as he sat up. Finally, he’d taken a deep breath, shaking his head. “You’re not gay … sorry. You’re seventeen years old, sleep-deprived and horny. We need to get you laid.” He’d stretched back out on his bed, still amused, and picked up his book to get back to work.

Soon thereafter, and for the next two years of Harold’s college career, a succession of smart young women, all of them at least a year or two older than he was, and more or less recruited by Nathan, kept him company; more than willing to take a shy genius to bed.

Harold had been grateful to, and gentle with those girls. Though he treated them kindly and a few became friends, there was no real passion involved. He was frankly relieved when Nathan stopped setting him up (when he graduated and moved back to New York.)

Somewhere along the line in his studies, he’d read that it was common for men to experience homosexual feelings at some time in their lives. He hadn’t thought much about it since.

It was late. Hours since he’d said good night to John. Harold rose from the table with a twinge in his hip, sobered by memories. He was satisfied to relegate the sensual overtones of his evening with John to echoes of the past. It was time to close up the kitchen and get to bed.

Imagine, he thought, pouring out the last of his drink, making that kind of a confession to John Reese. He could see him reacting much the way Nathan had, albeit with a different style; grinning, not laughing. It wouldn’t surprise him to hear a similar graphic suggestion in the man’s sultry teasing voice.

Before turning in he checked on John. He didn’t bother with the loft’s cameras, a glance at his phone told him John wasn’t there. Grace wasn’t the only person he’d built an app to keep track of.

John was walking. Harold had seen this many nights. He watched his progress for a little while on the off-chance a destination appeared. There rarely was one. Harold assumed he took these walks to work off his considerable store of energy. He blanked the screen and got ready for bed.

His thoughts and a physical restlessness kept him awake in the dark for a while. Images behind his closed eyes of Nathan long ago, waving his hand suggestively at his crotch. Nathan laughing. John smiling. He saw John’s eyes over the rim of a wineglass.

His restlessness was fraught with a diffuse kind of arousal. He briefly stroked his palm over himself through the layers of bedclothes; he experimented with touching. He considered masturbating, something he rarely did at night and even more rarely in bed. The effort with his physical limitations … the necessary steps, the work involved … all more easily managed in the bathroom with lubricant and clean up items in reach. It made him feel tired even to contemplate it. He drifted to sleep at last, his body still in a state of wanting.

 

***

“If you’re listening, Mr Reese, I apologize for offering very little of interest to hear.”

John smiled at the sound of Harold’s voice as he walked, wishing he would say more. He knew he’d eventually find the bugs, but it might take a while. 

He walked on, trying to clear his head. 

What was the thing he’d heard Harold say to Henry Peck, “… if you need a mystery, I recommend the human heart.” Damn it, Finch.

John only cared about the mystery of one human heart. And it defied him. He hit a mental wall with every approach he considered. If a genius like Finch hadn’t figured himself out, John didn’t like his chances of doing it for him.

It was 3 AM and his feet had carried him where his own, not-so-mysterious heart wanted to be. Knowing where Harold was made it hard for John to be anywhere else. From shadow to shadow he moved down the alley behind the townhouse.

He silently scaled the building across the backstreet and found a secure perch from which to contemplate Harold’s darkened windows.

 

***

The pulsing blue glow awakened him. Harold’s phone was face down on the nightstand but a halo of blue light appeared with every pulse. An alert.

“What,” he murmured, reaching for his glasses, lifting the phone.

John. Proximity alert. Harold sat up and blinked at the screen, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. The man was right outside, but why? Harold’s first impulse was to call him and ask him. He stopped himself, unsure he wanted to reveal that he knew he was there. For the same reason, he resisted turning on a light.

“What are you up to, John?” he spoke softly aloud and then touched his fingers to his lips recalling the bugs he hadn’t bothered to search for yet. Unlikely that John had planted any upstairs though he supposed he could have done so quickly when he left to use the bathroom. Harold had directed him to the one downstairs, but …

Useless to worry about. There could be only one reason, maybe two, for his hyper vigilant friend to be outside his home at this time of night. He’d looked for his place of residence so long that having found it, he must feel bound to surveil it.

Maybe he thinks I’ll try to slip away.

He touched John’s number and it was picked up instantly though there was silence on the other end.

“John,” he said. “Please go home and get some sleep. I’ve lived here for quite some time, safely, and I have no intention of sneaking off in the night.”

John didn’t answer but Harold could hear him breathing. Only a few months before, this behavior might have angered him. Threatened him. But he’d brought this on himself and what he felt now was a fondness for this guard dog of a man. (You brought him home, Harold, now it’s your responsibility to take care of him.)

“It was truly a lovely evening, John. I’ll sleep better knowing you’re getting some rest and not sitting up all night watching my house.” He heard him sigh.

Quieter than a whisper, “‘Night, Finch.”

Harold went to the window and drew back the curtain. He could just barely make out the silhouette gracefully descending. Leaning against the window frame he watched until he lost sight of him.

 

***

When John was comfortably in place he turned on his phone to listen for any stray sounds from Finch’s house. At the same time he thought he saw a faint light appear through the curtains of a second floor window. A pulsing light. An alarm? Seconds later he heard Finch’s sleepy voice, asking, “What are you up to, John.” And his heart sank.

Evidently, Grace wasn’t the only person his boss tracked for proximity alerts. John knew he was fucked, but it was possible Harold didn’t know that he could hear him. John had been very quick and quiet when he’d gone up to the bedroom. He’d hidden two bugs and he’d taken something. Something not to be thought about now.

He waited for his phone to buzz. He had nothing to say in his own defense. He’d take whatever Finch dished out and rethink his technique for future late night visits — definitely without his phone turned on.

The unexpected gentle words and tone took John by surprise, unprepared. He closed his eyes as he listened. He wanted to be wrapped in the softness of Harold’s bedroom voice. Not angry, his voice sounded intimate, affectionate, and left John wanting even more of what he couldn’t have.

In turn, he barely managed to say good night.

He had to go. Harold was watching to make sure of it, so … John went home.

The loft was warm. John felt different in the space than when he’d left it, what seemed like a long time ago. He glanced at the bottle of whiskey still sitting on the empty center island. The urge to be numb, to sink deep and feel nothing was gone. What he wanted to feel was a definite something. On his journey home he’d come to a decision, at least for tonight.

He stretched out naked in his bed in the dark with his souvenir, a fine-stitched pocket square from the top drawer of Harold’s dresser, that John hoped he wouldn’t miss.

Grace Hendricks existed, the petite love of Harold’s life. The possibilities he’d seen in his fantasies may have narrowed but his actual connection to the man was undeniably fuller than it was mere hours before. He was achingly aroused. He stroked his hard cock … knowing where Harold was and what he sounded like when he woke up in the middle of the night. Not angry. Sleepy and kind. He thought back on Harold’s toast to … first dates, and the bright blushes. He spent a while remembering the heat of Harold’s eyes traveling over him.

Imagine if he had called you to him instead of sending you away, he prompted himself as he got closer. These images had to be manufactured and were harder to keep in focus. He was naked on his back and Harold was close to him. Touching him … teasing him as he teased himself with the smooth fabric. Softly touching his chest, his balls, Harold urging him to come.

He groaned and let the orgasm take him. He’d thought he would use the stolen handkerchief to catch his cum but that would spoil it. His own t-shirt was better for that … the other needed to be saved and kept safe for future use.


	4. Chapter 4

It was close to 6 AM. Harold was approaching the library. The morning was bright and cool and he was in a good mood until he started to question his behavior of the night before. It was impulsive and unlike him to act without fully considering possible effects. He should be more careful with John, test the waters before taking such a huge step. And where exactly would that step lead? Cozy dinners, glasses of wine? What on earth was he thinking.

He should be establishing appropriate boundaries and maintaining them.

John couldn’t be allowed to fixate on him personally. No more guarding him in the night. It reminded him uncomfortably of the way the machine had imprinted on him in the beginning. What mattered were the numbers. He excoriated the part of his heart that was touched by, warmed by John’s desire to guard him.

I gave him a purpose, he told himself. I am not that purpose.

He’d succeeded with the machine, defining a set of specific parameters. John was not a machine. Definitely … not a machine. It wasn’t the first time, and likely not the last, that Harold wished he understood people as well as he did computers. John’s comment of a few days before came back to him. “Not calling it human interaction might help.” He sighed.

The ringing payphone jarred him from his thoughts. 

By the time he reached the work room, he’d fine-tuned the attitude he wanted to take with John, brisk and business-like. For his own part, this sensual, whatever it was, starry-eyed gazing at John over glasses of wine, it had to stop.

The new number was a psychologist, Caroline Turing. Personal details were light, she had little presence on social media. Harold thought the threat would most likely be coming from someone in her client list. Working grounded him but didn’t prepare him for how it would feel to look up and see John, real and full of life in front of him.

Harold quickly looked away, thinking there should be a law against someone being as good-looking as John Reese. 

 

***

John fell into the pace of work easily. He saw Harold’s determination to focus and helped him; keeping talk light, keeping his own gaze neutral and paying attention. For him this wasn’t a problem. It was the way he lived his life. The sudden light he’d seen in Harold’s eyes, his spontaneous reaction the moment he saw him; he tucked that away. John knew what he’d seen. It could wait, like the handkerchief tucked in his back pocket. John’s appetite for Harold was insatiable but he could (and he would) sustain himself on small, rich, offerings. 

***

Caroline Turing’s client base was a virtual rolodex of powerful men who might have secrets worth protecting with murder. They had an asset who was well-versed in the secrets of the city’s powerbrokers, Zoe Morgan. Harold knew they needed Zoe’s help to assess the most likely threats. He arranged for her to meet with John.

He was aware that she and John had been … intimate. A spark had struck between the two very attractive people, their chemistry was undeniable and it made Harold feel uncomfortable in ways he didn’t care to examine. He listened to their conversation like a man undergoing a vaguely unpleasant medical procedure. It made him unhappy to hear the way John spoke her name, slowly, fondly, imagining how they must be looking at one another. Harold hardened his resolve to keep the borders delineated between John and himself.

As the day unfolded into night, borders, chemistry, nothing mattered to Harold but helping John save the number and saving John from the FBI. Agent Donnelly’s task force was setting a full court press on the man in the suit at the worst possible time, with HR closing in on Caroline Turing.

“Finch, I need a little help here.” John’s voice didn’t reflect the danger he was in. It didn’t have to. Harold knew exactly what he was facing, trapped in a downtown hotel with multiple threats closing in.

“I’m working on it,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. He spelled out an escape path … the essentials, freight elevator, necessary sub level, service tunnel that would lead them to the old water treatment plant. “I’ll pick you up there,” he promised, knowing John would move heaven and earth to be there.

He had another task to perform. Extreme danger called for extreme measures. Harold was bound for a darkened rooftop in Lower Manhattan to do something he couldn’t stop to weigh the dangers of. With the cold night air whipping around him and a flashlight held in his mouth to light his keyboard, he hacked Homeland Security’s emergency communications system, shutting down every cell tower in a two-mile radius, limiting their use to one number. His own.

 

***

 

“We’re out of time,” John told Turing. She was holding together, flaky at the edges but not falling apart. Sometimes the number meant something to him, personally touched him. People like Megan Tillman. Tillman had drawn him in deeply, the strength of her character and the reservoir of her pain. It wasn’t always that way. This psychologist struck him as careless, as privileged, her practice was nonsense to him. His feelings didn’t affect his commitment to protecting her. What mattered was a human life, the job, the mission as defined by Harold.

Corrupt cops had been hired to take Turing out. The FBI was hot on his trail. Hemmed in between them, their options had shrunk to none. “Just stay behind me and I’ll hold them off as long as I can,” he told her.

He felt calm. There was an acceptance he felt when it came to last stands. He had no fear of death. For the first time in a long time, however, he was touched by a thread of regret. There was someone he wasn’t ready to say good bye to. He reached out to him.

“I’m in a bit of a bind, Harold. Hope you’ve got some tricks left up your sleeve.”

“One or two,” Harold answered, and John felt a whisper of hope. He listened. Harold was somewhere outdoors, there were distant street sounds. A whistling noise like interference pierced his ear … then nothing. No Harold, but also no heavy tread of men with guns in the corridor. Somehow, Harold had done something, something no one but Harold could do, to give them a fighting chance.

Harold’s voice came back to life in his ear.

“I trust you can still hear me, Mr Reese.” John took a deep breath.

Harold had given them a tactical advantage and John had to push it for all he was worth. He had to get this woman out of danger and he had to see Harold again. The first task he accomplished, the other, seeing Harold again … that would take days and demand a host of skills he feared he didn’t have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I redid this chapter to make the action smoother. 6/4/17


	5. Chapter 5

Harold was stunned to see Alicia Corwin, he couldn’t make sense of it. Why on earth would this woman want Carolyn Turing dead? Then the thought struck him, Corwin had no interest in Turing. She’d figured out the irrelevant numbers and used Turing to lure him out, to find him.

“I didn’t have to lure you out,” Corwin said, when he accused her, looking nearly as confused as Harold felt. Her tear-stained face was filled with a complex mix of emotions that he was struggling to understand; sadness, exhaustion, fear, and confusion. “I’ve been following you for weeks.”

Before he could comprehend the words he was distracted by movement in his peripheral vision. An explosion of gunfire nearly froze his heart. Corwin, alive one second, then dead, shot in the head at point blank range right in front of him. Harold gaped, fighting to get breath in his lungs. The woman he’d come there to save, Caroline Turing, smiled at him and said, “I thought she’d never shut up.”

The shift in reality was more than Harold could assimilate.

“So nice to finally meet you …” she said. It could only mean one thing. She’d orchestrated … all of it. This woman had put a hit on herself just to find him. “You can call me, Root.”

Dear God, the smells of death were rising from Alicia’s crumpled body and Harold feared he would pass out. With each revelation, his horror mounted. Root … the hacker; smiling at him as if he’d welcome her. Like a demon she’d materialized from the ether of the internet.

 

***

John was on his way to the library, about to check in on Harold and give him a status update. Turing should be safe, for now, with HR in handcuffs. Harold could let her go. Donnelly would be too busy with the major bust of crooked cops to concentrate on the man in the suit.

Lunch with his boss would be his reward. Chinese food, Thai? John was buoyed by an almost physical pleasure in the success of the mission, the way he and Harold had worked together. The dovetailing of one set of foes pitted against the other. Poetic justice for Donnelly to end up busting HR. His phone buzzed and he thought it would be Harold. It was Zoe.

“You were set up, John. Turing isn’t who you think she is.” A thread of fear ran through him.

“What do you mean?”

“Her office, her life. It’s all a mirage. I saw the escrow transfer. She was the one who paid HR. She put the hit on herself … she was trying to lure you out in the open.”

“She wasn’t looking for me.” His heart was turning to stone. “She was looking for him.” 

Harold. The world’s most private person, so hard to find. John had led her straight to him. He’d been her armed escort, keeping her alive to reach him. The image of Harold waiting, innocent and unaware, believing he was rescuing her, assailed him.

Only his training kept him sane at that moment, on his feet and moving. With razor’s edge focus he would endure the unendurable and do whatever he had to, to get Harold back.

 

***

 

Root was disturbingly smart, as technically gifted as anyone Harold had ever known. She’d come uncomfortably close to perceiving the truth about the machine. As smart as she was, her perspective was warped in frightening ways. He took no comfort whatsoever in her reverence toward him, her worship of him as the machine’s creator. How could he? She considered caring for people to be his “flaw.”

Harold knew he would never give her access. It wouldn’t happen. It couldn’t happen. For a person so unbalanced, a person with no respect for human life, to attain that much power, he knew he would die before he’d let that happen. The question was, how many people would she kill, force him to watch die in his place. How many would she torture, like Denton Weeks.

Harold thought often of John though he tried not to. It was too painful. He had too many regrets. He prayed that John had gotten to safety and that he’d be able to carry on their work. He cursed himself for not trusting John with the contingency protocols. He cursed himself for not following up on the threat of Root when she first made herself known to them. His coldness to John that morning tormented him. He’d meant to talk to him rationally, discuss priorities. Instead he’d turned a cold shoulder and confined all conversation to … Caroline Turing.

Harold didn’t expect to survive this nightmare. He had to believe that John would go on working the numbers. John was the primary asset. The machine would give him the numbers in Harold’s absence. Faced with the recurring phenomenon of pay phones ringing at his approach, surely the man would answer one. Harold knew he was capable of figuring out the code, but what a waste of time not to have spelled it out. Ultimately, John must become admin.

Harold’s other regrets were no less painful for being ill-defined. A clouded longing, a tenderness welling inside him. He tried not to think about this, afraid that Root would perceive his vulnerability … and use it against him. Harold tried to will John to understand that he must not come after him. No matter how fervently a part of him wished he could see him again. The thought of this madwoman doing to John what she’d done to Denton Weeks … Harold knew he couldn’t survive it. He’d break.

 

***

 

The crime scene, Corwin’s body. There was nothing there to lead him. Maybe something would come of investigating the murder but not fast enough. John walked. He walked in a state of disbelief, coming up empty at every turn until he found himself nearing midtown Manhattan. Crowds moving past him. Hundreds of people, unaware of the disappearance of the man who’d devoted himself to their protection. He stopped in their midst and looked up into the eye of a street cam. The machine. If it were a man he’d have grabbed him by the throat.

“He’s in danger now because he was working for you … so you’re going to help me get him back.” He stared unflinching into the seeming inanimate object, knowing he was seen and heard by a vast, immeasurable mind, a mind created by Harold.

The nearest pay phone rang. John stared at it. He moved toward it slowly and lifted the receiver.

A series of words, the verbal equivalent of a pasted ransom note. Each utterance was distinct, each in a different voice; as if the machine had chosen them for clear enunciation. John didn’t doubt for a second that this was the machine responding to his demand.

Figuring out the meaning of the bizarre litany was the first of what proved to be a series of Herculean tasks. Cracking the code, tracking the murder of Alicia Corwin, saving Leon Tao. None of it brought him closer to his goal. The realization came that the machine was not helping him.

Harold had told him once that he had a contingency. Now John understood that he was the contingency. The man wanted him to go on saving the numbers … but he refused. Seeing this, even knowing Harold wanted it, he rejected it and his will was iron.

Again he confronted the machine, this time with assailants in hot pursuit and the number begging him to take cover. John was indifferent to the danger, implacable. Harold created you, he thought, you must be able to think, to understand.

“I won’t do this without him,” he said, gazing up into the blinking red light. The machine believed him.

 

***

 

Root was sedating him to travel again, a painful injection in his neck. Harold was beginning to feel the effects when he heard her say, “Well, well. It seems I underestimated your knuckle-dragging friend … “

John was coming. He fought the drugs.

He heard her threatening Denton Weeks, once again her prisoner, assuring him that her gun was loaded. She had questions she wanted answered.

John was coming.

Harold had to find a way to help him. If he couldn’t stop him, he had to help him. With intense concentration he worked his cufflink free and reached the phone while she was questioning Weeks. He blanched when the gun went off behind him. 

Another wave of the drug hit him. She stood over him and glanced past him, down at the phone. She leaned down into his face and regarded him with a coquettish smile. (She just killed a man, his inner voice cried.)

“Harold, did you think I’d forget to disconnect the phones?” She scolded him like he was a bad kitten. He closed his eyes, flooded with relief, knowing she hadn’t recognized the numbers he’d entered. Knowing John would. At the last second, when she looked away, he dropped the cuff link.

 

***

The slumped body, half hidden by the post, nearly dizzied John with despair until he discovered it wasn’t Harold. Denton Weeks. Then he saw the cufflink and his heart soared. The phone beside it displayed an array of numbers. Too many for a phone number. Tap code. Harold was alive and had left him a clue. Time was too short to celebrate this taste of hope; he needed to decipher the message and move.

Train station. He had to get there before she could move him again. He had to stop her. He’d kill her if he got the chance.

“It’s not what you want, Harold,” he said aloud, as he pushed the rental to its limits, urging speed with his heart as much as with his foot on the gas, “but it needs to be done.”

He was so close to reaching his goal that every mile felt like running underwater. 

 

***

 

Harold hit the train station floor with no control. All that mattered was keeping Root from killing again. Through the pain of impact he heard the gun go off and people screaming. Too stunned to move he thought he saw John leap over a bank of wooden benches to get to him. Root was gone. The pain was everywhere and John was telling him, “Don’t move, don’t move.”

“Am I hit?” he asked him.

“I don’t think so.” John’s touch reassured him at a level that had no words. The brisk efficiency of his handling communicated strength to Harold, told him he was safe. For the first time in what felt like eternity, he believed the nightmare could end. Fighting the sedative and trying to breathe normally, he got some control of himself as he was lifted from the floor. Was John really saying, sorry … for taking so long?

“I really didn’t intend for you to come and find me, Mr Reese … there are other people that need your help.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen this way but John was here. In spite of Harold’s planning, in spite of everything, John had come. She was wrong. John was the living proof that not all humans were bad code.

“Well you saved my life once or twice, Harold. It seemed only fair I return the favor.” John was guiding him out of the train station in the way he had of moving quickly without rushing, skirting the chaos that had erupted with the shooting, ignoring the wail of sirens approaching. “I think we should lay low for a couple hours,” John said, “get you some rest.”

“The Chancellor House,” Harold told him, trying to stay focused.

The Chancellor House was an older, private hotel, not part of a chain. It had maintained its four-star ratings throughout its 100 year history. More to the point, the property was part of Harold Tanager’s sizable portfolio.

 

***

The needs of the moment shaped each action and John performed seamlessly, he had to. Harold had to be taken somewhere safe. Even as he endeavored to protect him, he marveled at the man’s resourcefulness. 

Harold Tanager. Following Harold’s directions, John retrieved papers and other key items, credit cards and phone from a cache that any covert operative would envy. Within half an hour they were checked into a luxury hotel suite where the staff was bending over backwards to welcome and see to the needs of the owner. Despite appearing too weary to keep his eyes open, Harold arranged for the delivery of clothing and a meal to their room. John caught a number of speculative glances at him as Mr Tanager’s companion. Not hard to figure out why when they entered the suite (without luggage.) It was large and luxurious, and there was only one bed.

Shades of Texas and Carter and a cheap motel room. Unlike Carter, Harold obviously hadn’t thought about sleeping arrangements. John was just as glad it hadn’t come up. He didn’t want another room. He didn’t want to leave Harold alone. Just how much he didn’t want that … not to be thought about with Harold in such a vulnerable state.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor re-write and edit 6/4/17


	6. Chapter 6

Harold was functioning. He had the sensation of skimming along the surface of his mind to get things done. It wasn’t a bad feeling. An odd, small inner voice said he could do this indefinitely, live in this narrow mental corridor. The food order was simple. He didn’t feel hungry. In fact, the thought of food was foreign, as if it were a substance he couldn’t imagine putting in his mouth. He ordered the blandest thing he could think of, omelets and toast, and asked the kitchen to delay delivery for an hour, hoping some appetite would come to him. It was necessary to eat, so he would, knowing he had not eaten in a long time.

The clothing, he could have seen to in his sleep. Tanager’s detailed preferences and sizes were kept on account at his atelier and John’s were at his mental fingertips.

Once these simple things were done, Harold didn’t know what to do with himself. He rose from the armchair where he’d settled to make the phone calls. He moved toward the suite’s bathroom though he felt no need to use it. He was thinking he just needed to collect himself, somewhere to sit down (but I was sitting down.)

“Harold?” John’s voice, questioning.

“I’m alright, Mr Reese,” he answered, unable to articulate more than that. He closed the bathroom door behind him. He reached the sink and held on for a few seconds before moving on to the toilet. Steadied with one hand on the back of it, he closed the lid to sit down.

There was a weakness, a fluttery feeling somewhere between his stomach and chest. His ribs felt tender. His fall in the train station? No. That impact was aching all along his side. This, he suddenly understood as he curled forward, was in his muscles. A defensive constriction. His body was trying to protect itself. But he wasn’t the one being attacked. In his mind he saw Root curled defensively on the floor, repeatedly kicked in the stomach by Denton Weeks.

Porcelain fixtures, the floor tiles, thick towels hanging on the warming bars. Familiar, clean details. He tried to latch on to the sight of these solid things but his eyesight was blurring and his body had begun to tremble.

I’m fine, he thought, but he couldn’t stop the shaking.

“Finch,” John was right outside the door, voice abrupt. “I’m coming in.”

Thank god, Harold thought.

“I don’t seem to be able to control this … tremor,” he told him. “I feel fine but … “

“It’s okay, Finch,” he said. He sounded so matter of fact that Harold felt no more need to explain himself. It brought a smile to his face, even in distress, to see John fold himself so easily, squatting in front of him. It was only when John took hold of his wrists that Harold realized how tightly he was clutching at the sides of the toilet seat. He shook harder for a moment as his hands came free but knew John wouldn’t let him fall. (I knew you boys wouldn’t let me down.) Harold gasped.

“Hang on to me,” John told him. “I’m going to help you stand up.”

“Yes, I can do that. I’m so sorry …” He heard his voice trembling and knew he was crying.

***

The lost look on Harold’s face as he suddenly headed for the bathroom was a look John knew too well. He’d seen it on the faces of soldiers new to combat, on the faces of victims of violent crimes. People subjected to torture. It came when the crisis ended but the body couldn’t catch up; the aftermath of violence, of tension, of being shaken by the loss of control. He’d been the cause of it countless times, something he could never erase.

He’d seen Root fake it. He should have known. Part of him had sensed it, not seeing in her eyes the effect she was describing. He’d offered her chocolate to distract her because she appeared to be in better shape than she thought she was.

Done, it was a mistake that couldn’t be corrected.

He followed Harold, listening at the door. No sound from within of him using the sink, using the toilet. Nothing but a sudden shuddering breath.

 

***

I’m not myself, Harold thought. John was taking his clothes from him slowly, talking him through it, almost as if he were a child. “Now your shirt. Don’t worry about the cufflinks. I have them.”

Am I weeping? How can he stand the sight of me? These questions and others rose in his mind and drifted away because he needed to pay attention to John’s instructions, to move his body this way or that to help him.

“Shower time, Finch.” John said.

“I can’t,” Harold told him. It simply couldn’t be done. He glanced at the stall with its shiny spray fixtures and steam jets. It stirred a longing in him but he couldn’t imagine reaching it, operating the controls. Impossible.

“I’m going to help you.” And step by step, he did.

The steam was a soothing heat on the edge of too hot that was perfect. Magical. It worked its way deep in his muscles. John’s naked presence in the clouds of vapor seemed mythic, god-like in human form. Gazing at him, Harold wondered how many hundreds of thousands of men throughout history and around the world had communed this way, in heated water and curling steam. Public baths, sweat lodges, hammam. There was a kinship in it that felt ancient. The scent of the soap comforted him. He sat on the shower’s wooden bench and let himself be scrubbed without self-consciousness. John worked with a bath brush and washcloth, and Harold re-inhabited each part of his body as it was cleansed.

He studied John’s body, registering its scars, fascinated by the muscles moving under the surface as he worked, admiring its beauty. He felt grateful for the assurance of his closeness, his solidity.

“Thank you … for this,” he said.

John answered with a tight smile and shake of his head. He'd seen before how hard it was for John to accept thanks, as if his help must be taken for granted and he must be unnoticed. But Harold did notice ... the kindness, the care, and he was flooded with affection for this strong, tender person.

The tremors had stopped.

John knelt in front of him, touching him intimately with the same brisk, firm pressure he’d used everywhere else and Harold felt a thrill of pleasure. He could see down the plane of John’s glistening stomach, indistinct without his glasses, but unmistakable, the thickened column of his cock. It jutted outward firmly as if it were too heavy to lift up.

I want him, Harold thought. Not a new thought, an acknowledgement. Impossible to mistake in the nakedness of this moment, a nakedness more profound than being without clothes.

 

***

 

John was in a state that was both grounded in Harold’s need … and a quiet kind of ecstasy. To be so close to him, taking care of him, after the days of grueling effort to reach him; it was more than he could have hoped for.

His will, his need for Harold, was swirling invisibly at peace in the steamy surround of the shower.

The intimacy of touching aroused him and he was aware of Harold being semi-erect through most of the washing. When he roughed the washcloth around his cock and washed deep between his legs, Harold made a pleasure sound but John didn’t linger. What he wanted from Harold wasn’t something to be stolen surreptitiously. For now, this was more than enough.

Then Harold’s hands were on his shoulders and John looked up into a face that was intent, eyes no longer distant. The man’s breathing was deep.

“I have no right, John … but I want to kiss you.”

John couldn’t answer, too moved to shape words. He lifted his chin to offer his lips. His hands slid up to Harold’s waist to brace him as the man leaned forward. Harold’s kiss was careful and affectionate, slow moving across John’s mouth.

It dawned on him, with a whisper of jealousy, that the gentle touches of lips and tongue might be how he’d learned to kiss a woman’s smaller mouth. He pushed envy aside because this was Harold’s kiss for him and every soft pressure and brush of his tongue was exquisite.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canon continues to get bent.

The aches were slow to seep back in after the shower, after John’s warm mouth and gentle hands had carried him past pain. Harold’s lips felt a little swollen. 

He watched him accept the room service delivery, thinking about what they’d done, what, once upon a time, Nathan had suggested to him so crudely. He couldn’t have imagined then, what he felt now. How he would savor it, how the sense memory of it could give him an appetite … for everything.

The first bite of the omelet surprised him with flavor, as if his tastebuds were new, buttery egg and the fresh herbs. He glanced up at John to find him gazing back, not smiling but with a quiet pleasure.

He wasn’t sure how they would manage, going forward, but for now he was grateful to feel at home in his own skin, to be enjoying a simple meal in the company of his extraordinary friend. They had a night’s respite ahead before they’d need to resume a routine that would require choices and decisions that he was too tired to contemplate.

 

***

John lay awake for a while, measuring where he’d fallen short. Root was still alive. He’d had to choose. He accepted the choice he’d made, the only one possible. He couldn’t know until he examined him if Harold had taken that bullet. Harold bleeding out while he chased Root down and killed her … not an option.

It was hard for him to accept his mistakes. As well as he’d been trained to read people, he could still be fooled. Elias had done it. Now Root. For John, Root was worse, much worse. Elias was not a good man but there was good in him. Root was far more dangerous. A direct threat to Finch. He needed to know what she’d done to him. The cut on the hand. It was a superficial slice, already healing. But she’d hurt him in other ways and John needed to know how. He couldn’t push him, but he’d stay alert for when he was ready to talk.

This night was almost too precious. John made vows to himself of what he’d do to protect it. The way Harold looked at him, touched him; the full bore intensity of his loving attention. He knew he was in no way worthy of it, but he wanted it all the same.

Sleep came, not to be denied with his body so deeply sated; Harold’s kisses and caresses still fresh on his skin and the man sleeping peacefully beside him.

In the morning he rose early, something needed doing before Harold woke up.

 

***

Harold wanted to get back to New York, back to work, but it was with some regret that he shed Tanager’s persona and left DC behind. The flight would be under an hour by corporate charter. He divided his attention between the sky and clouds, and John, seated across the table where a new laptop sat, unopened. Harold considered what needed to be done.

The night they’d spent was so unlike life as he knew it, that it was taking on the dimensions of another world in his mind. A world with no greater demand than finding new ways to touch him that would make John’s eyes close with pleasure, new places to kiss him, to press their bodies together.

John was frowning slightly at his phone, texting. It wasn’t an unhappy look as much as one of concentration. He looked up and all traces of frown disappeared. His lovely half-smile appeared. The look went straight to Harold’s heart and made what he needed to say, much harder.

“Earlier, you said that you thought it would be a good idea for you to stay with me, for a week or so … until things are settled. I understand that you want to keep an eye on me.” Harold paused.

“And …” John prompted him, softly.

“I think it would be best, John, if we try to resume as customary a routine as possible. And by customary, I mean I need to be able to sleep alone in my home. It also means that you can’t spend the night watching from the rooftop across the alley. I can’t allow … what happened to control my life.”

“If that’s what you want, Finch.”

Harold tried to gauge this reaction but John’s expression had become opaque. It was a little surprising. No argument, no objection? Did it mean he was accepting this pronouncement or was he just confidant that Harold couldn’t stop his surveillance. He wondered if it had another significance, if he might be relieved that Harold was imposing a physical distance. That seemed … unlikely. If anything, John’s desire, his pleasure had been intense. It could be, however, that he thought Harold was rejecting him in some way.

“What I want, Mr Reese, is immaterial,” he spoke the name affectionately. “I grew up in a loving but fairly strict small family. On christmas, gifts were opened and admired but left under the tree until after church and chores were done.”

“I’m a toy?”

“Not a toy, John. You’re my first field guide to birds.”

 

***

 

John’s only quarrel with the LearJet’s cushy seats was that they weren’t side by side. He settled in for the short flight, happy with his view of Finch who seemed to be doing well that morning.

Fusco was texting him … pictures of the dog. Bear at the precinct, Bear in the park with Lee. No way. This dog was for Harold. He texted back: ‘Picking up the dog 0500,’ and hit send. Today wouldn’t work but he was getting that dog back first thing tomorrow morning. He blanked his phone and looked up to check on Harold, who was looking at him (good) as if deciding on something (might not be good.) 

“Earlier, you said that you thought it would be a good idea for you to stay with me, for a week or so until things are settled. I understand that you want to keep an eye on me.” Harold paused. Okay, this was not good.

“And …” He wanted him to go on, even though the tone of voice and hesitation said he wasn’t going to like it.

“I think it would be best, John, if we try to resume as customary a routine as possible. And by customary, I mean I need to be able to sleep alone in my home. It also means that you can’t spend the night watching from the rooftop across the alley. I can’t allow what happened to control my life.”

John wasn’t happy but he also wasn’t completely surprised by Harold’s decision. Harold’s privacy, his autonomy were hard fought. He wanted to reclaim them. What hurt here was the blur of motivation. Did Harold need to reassert himself in the wake of what Root had done to him, or did he need to draw back from the changes between them.

“If that’s what you want, Finch.” It’s not square one, he told himself. 

He could keep tabs on Harold from outside proximity range. That morning, he’d planted a bug in the frame of Harold’s glasses, knowing it would come in handy, not suspecting it would be so soon. He’d be able to track him, even from exile.

“What I want, Mr Reese, is immaterial.” How did he do that? Say his formal name so … intimately that John felt it like a kiss. The subtlest tilt of his head, the look in his eyes quieted John’s inner voices and he hung on Harold’s words. “I grew up in a loving but fairly strict small family. On christmas, gifts were opened and admired but left under the tree until after church and chores were done.” 

“I’m a toy?” he said, flattered, a little aroused by the idea, but not really convinced.

“Not a toy, John. You’re my first field guide to birds.”

This was … it was like a door opening in his heart. Warm light was spilling through him. Though he sat still in his seat, trying to find his voice, in his mind he was kneeling at Harold’s feet.

 

***

 

Without the precaution of bugging the man’s glasses he’d have lost him that night when Finch went home to a different address. John was out walking, steering clear of the townhouse in the Village but monitoring via GPS. He was wondering where Harold was headed when all significant movement stopped at coordinates in Chelsea.

A quick check of the address revealed that it was the site of a boutique hotel. Deeper research revealed that The Carnegie Hotel was owned and operated by the Kingfisher Corporation. John grinned at that and felt sure this was another of his boss’s semi-permanent nests.

He headed to his own place, holding onto the fact that at least he knew where Harold was.

I’m the field guide to birds, he told himself. That boy will pick me up … and study every detail, every picture. He’ll devour me when he’s ready.

 

***

The suite was an executive rental in Harold Crane’s name. He leased it yearly (from himself) and used the residence fairly often. He kept it well-stocked. It occupied the top floor of the building and was one of the most secure of all of his properties.

In the interest of promoting sleepiness, Harold changed into a pair of much-loved silk pajamas and brewed a cup of herbal tea, using a spoonful of rich honey from an apiary he owned on Long Island. God save the bees, he murmured, as he stirred the thick golden syrup into his tea.

A glance at his phone showed John walking. Nowhere near the townhouse, he noted. He must have accepted the injunction not to surveil him from the alley. He didn’t walk for as long as Harold had seen him wander some nights, heading back to his loft fairly early.

Harold sat at the small dining table to drink his tea, laptop open to display views of John’s apartment. He felt both eager for the sight of him and slightly nervous, uncomfortably aware of why his feelings were heightened. Somehow, having been so close to John made him feel like more of a voyeur. He knew what that body felt like to touch and it stirred him with almost painful longing.

He should be here, Harold thought, watching John undress. What am I trying to prove — that I don’t need him? He closed the laptop, hungry for the sight of John but not in a grainy video image. He looked around the suite and wondered if he’d checked all the building security feeds. Opening the laptop he quickly switched screens but not before noting that the lights were now out in the loft.

Of course he’d checked security, remembering as soon as he began to check the feeds again.

It was the start of a long, uneasy night. A hundred times he was on the verge of calling John. It was close to four in the morning when he finally dropped off to sleep of utter exhaustion, every light on around him. At six he got up and stubbornly readied himself for work, feeling every bruise as well as his chronic pains more keenly for the lack of rest.

 

***

John was awake long before dawn and woke up Fusco who grumbled sleepily but let him in to retrieve Bear.

“Sorry to ruin your beauty sleep, Lionel.”

“Yeah, whatever.” He handed over a bag full of food, a few toys and a rolled up dog bed.

“He likes falafel, too,” Lionel told him.

John made a doubtful sound, scratching Bear’s neck.

“Yeah, you’re welcome. Outta here, both of you before you wake up my kid.”

John gave Bear a workout in the park before heading into the library. At the park’s edge a payphone rang. A new number. He’d look into it but first he needed to work on the files for Samantha Groves, get it done before Harold came in.

 

***

 

Harold looked into the expressive eyes of the Malinois. Bear was watching him intently from his dog bed. He was a very big dog, an awful lot of dog. What in the world was John thinking, bringing the animal here?

“Any luck with that plate?” John called in for an update on the partial license plate he’d given him. Harold was slipping on details, he knew it but felt defensive. Wasn’t it enough that he’d created a security firm and bought a credit bureau to support the man’s cover? 

“This distraction that you adopted keeps interrupting my work,” he told him. Harold hoped he could hear the reproach in his voice.

He’d found John and the dog, purported to be a Belgian attack breed, in the library when he arrived that morning. John had looked like someone covering his tracks. He’d evidently been doing something he felt guilty about near Harold’s work station, or maybe he was feeling guilty about foisting this dog on him (which he should — the thing had already savaged an expensive Asimov first edition.)

John had further unsettled him by telling him the identity of their new number and moving swiftly to tape her picture to the work board. Harold, with little sleep and less patience, had informed him that he was aware of the number’s identity, Sofia Campos, and familiar with the details of her background. Even though it was the point of the contingency, the fact that John was also receiving the numbers from the machine was … irregular.

Nothing felt exactly right. The flow of the work progressed but not smoothly.

Harold couldn’t quite forget the dog’s presence. It was surely a good thing to rescue it from the Aryan Brotherhood but that didn’t make this an appropriate home. On balance, he didn’t see what good it would do to keep him. He very much doubted the practicality or virtue of John’s point, “If anyone ever messes with you, he’ll eat them.”

What did it want from him, gazing with those big brown eyes? It was ridiculously distracting. And the tennis ball. He didn’t want to touch it with his bare hand but the animal clearly expected him to throw it. Harold carefully picked it up with a protective cloth and tossed it.

It moved gracefully for such a large dog, he admitted, getting the hang of throwing the ball.

More soulful gazing. Dogs needed to be walked. Treats would be in order. He knew that much and rose from his chair to get what he needed from the drawer where John had hidden the container away.

Beneath the drawer’s other contents, as if she’d just slid into view, a photograph of Root stared up at him. Harold froze, unable to look away. He told himself not to be foolish. John must have been working on the case notes. It made sense of his earlier behavior but it annoyed him that he’d thought he needed to hide this from him. He lifted the files out to prove to himself he could look at them. The dog treats, the walk with Bear, were forgotten until John called to ask him to come stay with Sofia.

Harold was feeling a bit light-headed. There was a blankness in time between taking the files out and getting the phone call. With a forced matter-of-factness he leashed the dog, announcing his intention.

“We’ll just … go for a walk,” he told Bear.

But couldn’t. He couldn’t get across the first street, stuck as if the air had turned to jello around him, stranding him confused, unable to see through the blur until the dog, tugging on the leash, helped him grope his way back to the library.

To John, he said, “ … I seem to be having a complication.”

 

***

On the highline, the elevated park where a breath of fresh air could be found, John listened to Sofia Campos weep for the death of her friend and how lost she felt. He understood this.

“It’s not your fault,” he told her. “I spent some time feeling lost.” John thought this must have reached her because she turned beseeching eyes his way to ask what had changed for him.

“Someone found me,” he said, “and gave me a purpose.”

“Sounds like a good friend,” she said.

“He is.” John hoped that Harold was listening because he was speaking to him as much as to her. He was speaking to the lost voice that had said, “I seem to be having a complication.” What he wanted, what he needed was to help Harold as the man had helped him.

He’d known when he heard him that he’d made the wrong choice the night before. Harold shouldn’t have been left alone. He wasn’t ready. He’d correct that mistake, even if it meant pushing harder than he liked through the man’s resistance.

When at last he was able to return to Harold at the library, John saw him fussing with the information board, pinning string.

“Time to go home, Harold.” John was determined to accompany him.

“I need to wrap things up here,” Harold said.

“Things here can wait,” he told him, not harshly but with finality. Harold stopped and looked at him. John was not going to leave without him and Harold saw it. He gathered his things. He leashed Bear and the three of them headed out together.

 

***

Harold heard John’s talk with Sofia. He was still sweating from his attempt to leave the library on his own. The words uttered, in his friend’s distinctive voice, touched him deeply. Humbled him. It was what he’d hoped for from the beginning, to get John back on his feet. If only he felt strong now, not … compromised.

It occurred to Harold that John had never been weak, despite his need for help. It wasn’t really strength he had needed from Harold though it was clear he’d been strengthened by their joint purpose, by a hand reaching into his darkness.

I’m the one who needs help now, he thought. Not a comfortable way to feel, but was it weakness? Was it really necessary to bat away the hand that John was holding out to him.

He turned his mind back to the work. It steadied him to re-examine the clues, the trail that would lead to the heart of the threat to Sofia. He was able to further manipulate the photo image from her phone. There he uncovered the boyfriend’s presence and understood the real source of danger.

Tired but still on his feet, he worked on the board while he waited for John, unsure of what he should do. One inner voice rehearsed telling John to go home, that he’d be fine on his own. Maybe spend the night in the library. There was a cot and mattress where he’d slept more than once in the past. Another part of him was ready, at a sign from John, to take him home.

Bear was ecstatic to see John. Harold was just as overjoyed though he continued to carefully wrap a string around the head of a pushpin on the work board.

“Time to go home, Harold." John sounded … sure of himself.

“I need to wrap things up here,” Harold told him.

“Things here can wait.”

Indeed, he thought, looking at John. Things here could wait.

There was a solidity to the truth and to John. This man was his, a wondrous gift from the universe and there was no need to leave him untouched, unexamined; not to embrace him and all that he offered.


	8. Chapter 8

The pajamas were soft. Navy pinstripes on a pale blue background. John didn’t know what they were made of; silk, cotton or some other exotic thing. After hearing about the honey Harold used in his tea, collected from bees at his own apiary, he imagined the cloth might be spun from the fluff of Harold’s personal sheep. His sheep were probably fed special grasses and lived in luxury on a farm in Scotland.

When they left the library he didn’t know if he’d be sleeping with Harold. The plan was to take him home and stay with him. Sleeping arrangements were negotiable — there was want and there was need. The want could be dealt with, the need was non-negotiable.

The way Harold looked at him in the elevator, on their way to the top floor suite, was pointing in the direction of the bed, not the couch. John saw that even Bear was starting to get a little love from Harold’s gaze.

“I suppose you’d like someplace special, just for you,” Harold said to Bear when they arrived.

It was nothing like the townhouse, John thought. Sleek, much more modern, but it felt like it belonged to Harold. Something in the air, maybe. His tea, his soaps, it could just be the way his Harold-ness charged the molecules around him.

“Bear can sleep on the floor,” John offered. Hell, he thought, a floor with thick carpet like this would be luxurious for a dog with Bear’s training. Or his own, if it came to that.

“So could we but there’s no need.”

  
John watched him make a nest for the dog with a blanket on an oversized armchair that sat close to the bed. Bear curled up with his chin resting on the arm, looking very much at home, ears relaxed as Harold stroked his head.

“Are you gonna make a bed for me too, Finch?” he asked him, almost sure he wasn’t spending the night on the couch or the carpet, pushing a little.

“No,” Harold’s voice was gentle, “I think the actual bed will suffice for the two of us.” In Harold-speak, this was pretty steamy. Suggestive enough to wipe the smile from John’s face and make his body respond.

By the time he joined him in the bed (naked, at Harold’s request — sorry I have no pajamas for you, but really, there’s no need to sleep in your underwear) John was aching and dangerously close to spilling from Harold’s first touches. For a man with mobility issues he was good at finding ways to bring their bodies close together; on his good side, his thigh sliding over John’s bare hard-on as he kissed him, pinning it under the soft, warm weight. John stroked the leg, trying to keep his own movements under control. He could feel Harold’s rigid cock rubbing against his hip, slippery through the smooth, thin fabric of the pajamas. John couldn’t help thinking of how it would feel if that cock was inside him.

Too good, much too good. Harold’s firm hand on the side of his face, his kisses getting rougher. John had to pull back, to warn him.

“I’m gonna soak your pinstripes any second now,” he managed to say.

“Go ahead,” Harold murmured, leaning into him and … John did.

 

***

 

Harold was relieved to reach the Carnegie. He was tired, quite tired, but in a relaxed way. Strange to enter the lobby with John and Bear. Jules, the evening concierge, greeted him and then took in the presence of the man and dog. Harold saw the surprise, quickly hidden, and the way he sat straighter behind the desk, offering a burnish of charm. He supposed this effect would ripple through all of his personas eventually.

On the elevator he looked at the pair of them and was amused to see similar expressions on their faces, a patient kind of longing.

I have a lover … and a dog, he thought.

It beggared the imagination. It would also tax the imagination, he realized. He would need to provide each of his identities with a credible partner’s cover. Maybe it would only require tweaking John Rooney, pairing him up with Crane. John Warren with … could Harold Wren afford a Wall Street lover? No. There was work to be done.

Other items that needed attending to, supplying his residences with food for Bear, beds, personal items for John. He caught himself. John wasn’t living with him. That wasn’t decided. What was he thinking? He’d slept with him once. Even so, he knew what he knew. The field guide to birds wasn’t a book one picked up and put down, not for him.

He should take care of these things and he would. For tonight it didn’t matter; a bowl of water for Bear, a special place for him to curl up. John could use his toiletries and though Harold liked to sleep in pajamas, he knew how the man liked to sleep — no need to mention how he knew.

Much as Bear was a lot of dog, John was a lot of man. Tall, powerfully built, Harold expected him to take up much more real estate in the bed than he did. Like Bear, he curled up to fit the space he was given and Harold felt comfortably aware of his presence without feeling crowded. It was unusual to be in just the top of his pajamas but the skin to skin contact wasn’t unpleasant and Harold drifted into a peaceful sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

The number was a young man. Young, but to Harold, he already looked like he’d been scarred by life. Literally, he was marked by what could have been a knife wound across his chin, and there was a deadened expression in his eyes.

It was almost noon, a good night’s sleep had become a good morning. Harold hadn’t felt this well rested or pain free in a long time. He glanced at Bear who also looked happy, a little sleepy from the extra-long session in the park.

Harold was mining the internet for information on Riley Cavanaugh. John was out, tracking down their new number.

“Have you located our quarry, Mr Reese?”

“I have. At a place called the Grand.”

“The Grand.” Harold was surprised. “Good choice,” he said, finding it difficult to picture their number at that particular restaurant.

“You know it?”

“Haven’t been back since they renovated, but the old Grand served one mean rib eye.” It was a long time since he’d enjoyed a leisurely dinner there with Nathan.

“So our guy has expensive taste.” John’s voice was low and Harold could hear the click of his camera shutter. He imagined John was hunkered down in a car, eyes on their number through the lens.

“The man he works for certainly does,“ Harold said, not terribly surprised by the criminal connections appearing on his screen. The Grand wasn’t Riley Cavanaugh’s style but his employer could definitely afford it. “George Massey owns several local establishments, but he’s better known for his less reputable enterprises. Including loan sharking, money laundering … extortion.” He went on but John interrupted the flow.

“I’m going in,” he said. Harold sat up straighter.

“Is something happening?” So soon, he thought, in a restaurant?

“Lunch.” Harold sat back, knowing he’d been played, not particularly amused.

Their number was shaping up as a perpetrator, not a victim. The threatening conversation in the restaurant, the tension between Massey and the owner and the hostess, it was pure extortion. He wanted money from the restaurateur. From the young woman, he said he wanted respect but it was clearly a much baser desire.

The meeting in the back room of Massey’s bar confirmed the worst. Cavanaugh was ordered to eliminate the girl from the restaurant, Annie Delaney, the widow of one of Massey’s own men. The pettiness, the wanton use of power and violence was something Harold thought he should have become inured to by now in dealing with the numbers … but he hadn’t. Massey and his crew appalled him.

In his mind he heard the words, bad code, without thinking of where they’d come from.

The night carried them into muddied waters. Harold was at pains to keep up with the sudden betrayals and turnarounds, mostly frantic that John keep out of danger.

The hitman was in love with his target and he’d killed to save her life.

“We have two people to protect now,” John said, shifting gears more quickly than Harold could. Technically, John was right. Their killer was trying to protect the woman he loved but Harold still feared he was a danger to her, and to John.

The sun was barely up, the light still a deep gray out the library windows. Harold had nodded off briefly, his head on his hands on the table. A cup of tea helped when he woke up.

“Has Riley met up with Annie yet?” he asked, staying on his feet, moving to keep his blood flowing and work out the stiffness in his legs. As bad as these long nights that blurred into days were for him, he worried for John out there, working ceaselessly.

“Not yet,” he answered, also on the move, but on the streets; Harold could track his position. Where was the girl now?

“There must be some other way to locate her,” Harold said.

“Maybe,” John answered. “But George will be gunning for both of them.”

“Yes, but Annie is the innocent victim in this equation,” Harold insisted.

“Are you saying we should protect Annie, but not Riley?”

“I’m just saying you might not want to put yourself and her at risk for a man like that. He’s a killer, Mr Reese.”

“So was I,” John said.

“I think there’s a distinction to be made,” Harold said, annoyed that John would compare himself to this man.

“Not as much as you think,” John said.

Night and day, to Harold, but he didn’t want to start a debate with John now. Essentially, John was right. Riley was their number and there was a reason the machine had given it to them. But, to ennoble this thug was just … wrong. To compare the killing John had done as a soldier, as an operative at the orders of the government, to the murders perpetrated by a gang of mobsters was intolerable. It hurt that John saw himself in Riley Cavanaugh.

It wasn’t long after that John asked him to go into the field.

“We need to make sure Annie’s not at her place,” John said. “Finch? I can call Fusco.” Harold knew John needed Fusco to monitor George.

“No, that’s all right,” he said. He gut-checked himself and thought he could do it. He should do it, he needed to get out of the library and wanted to help John. “Yes,” he told him, “I’ll call you when I get there.”

The Malinois sat up in his bed and whined when Harold looked at him.

“It’s okay,” he told Bear. “I’ll be fine.” He felt it, after the first questioning sensation, a steadiness. He would be fine.

It was a relief to act, to be moving. At Annie’s apartment he noted that his breaking and entering skills were becoming quite smooth. Not that it’s something I should be proud of, he thought

“Annie’s already gone,” he told John, pausing cautiously inside the door.

“Anything to tell us where she went?” Moments later, sounding anxious, John was pushing, “Finch?”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.” He looked for notes, an address book, anything that might reveal what Riley had meant when he told her to meet him at “our place.” He took a picture from the front of her refrigerator.

“Any luck,” John prompted. The man was not good at waiting, not used to being blind. Harold found her laptop and began to go through the files.

“Nothing yet. If they’ve got a secret meeting place, she’s hidden it well.”

 

***

John believed Harold was ready to go out on his own, that he had his feet back under him, but it always made him a little crazy when Finch was in the field. He listened, felt the time ticking slowly, imagining Harold methodically looking through the apartment with one of George Massey’s thugs closing in on him. Finding him. As soon as Harold got out of there he’d breathe easier.

At last he heard Harold say, “Oh, of course,” with a sound of discovery that was pure Finch.

“Well, don’t get caught hanging around.” He wanted Harold out of there.

“I don’t intend to.”

Then John lost Riley. The bastard slipped away from him and he was still searching for him the next time he heard from Harold. Harold was back in the library — one thing right with the world.

“Mr Reese, I may have found something.”

“That’s good, because I may have lost something.” 

“Annie was very careful not to leave any clues to her and Riley’s meeting place, but … maybe there’s one. Her laptop wallpaper shows a view of the city from a photo she took.”

“Okay,” John said slowly, eyes still scanning for Riley, hoping Harold was going to make sense soon.

“By measuring the alignment of the size of the key buildings, I was able to determine the geographical coordinates of the spot where it was taken. Approximately 50 feet above sea level.”

“Great. Now does any of that voodoo produce an address?” John asked, wishing Harold would speak English right about now.

“Yes.” He gave him the address, adding, “And it’s trigonometry … you’re just four blocks from there.” John was mentally kissing his genius lover as he took off at a run.

 

***

In the library, Harold was soon living a nightmare, no less frightening for being a familiar one. Helplessly hearing gunfire through a phone line, the sounds of fighting, not knowing what was happening to John. He’d learned to discern a great deal from the sounds John made when he fought, the grunts and huffs of his breathing. His breathing, sometimes it was all he had to hang on to.

Bear listened with him, sharing his worries, comforting him just by being there with him, his great warm head nudged into Harold’s lap.

When John came back to the library after being shot, Harold was an inner wreck. He watched John pace a little and then stop at the window, looking out at nothing.

“Reconsidering your decision to protect Riley?” he asked him, hoping it was so. The body armor had taken the impact but … so close, dear god, so close.

“No, just thinking I should grab another shirt.”

“He shot you, John.” Harold thought the fact should carry enough weight but tried to invest the words with his conviction.

“It wasn’t personal,” John said.

Harold shut his eyes. John’s ability to remove himself from an equation, his selflessness was part of what made Harold love him so fiercely. But there were limits, there were times he wanted to shake him, force him to take himself into account.

They were interrupted by Fusco.

“Your partner,” Fusco said, “Mr Tall, Dark, and Fearsome, has really got Massey steamed.”

“Meaning what?” Harold asked.

“Meaning he put a bounty out on Cavanaugh and the broad.”

“How much?” John asked.

“A million.”

 

***

John knew the bounty wasn’t something a small time crook like Massey could work on his own. He looked at Harold. They both knew who could; the one person who did have the connections to get every thug and bounty hunter in the city mobilized.

In a way, it was easier for John to ask Harold to do this than it was asking him to scout Annie’s place. Not as dangerous, at least in the short run. Elias was in jail, he couldn’t touch Harold there. John didn’t think he would even want to hurt him.

He was wary of Elias but there were things these two men had in common, both were incredibly smart, both personally … powerful, John thought. Both had a soft-spoken, scholarly manner. John thought it was possible Elias might see his better self in Harold.

“See what you can do,” John said, putting his money mentally on Harold’s chances. 

John had come back to the library for more than a fresh shirt. At a momentary impasse, he wanted, he needed to reconnect. To see Harold, feel his energy. There was a hesitance he felt when he got there, however. A feeling that had surfaced a number of times since they started working this number. It was in the way Harold was ready to dismiss Riley Cavanaugh. It made him uncomfortably aware of all the things Harold overlooked in him. Somewhere along the line, John thought, the day would come when Harold would look at him and see what his attraction to him had been hiding. These thoughts were like a small weight on his heart that kept him slightly at a distance from Harold.

At one point in the hours that followed, Harold exhorted him, “ … why are you wasting time on Riley. He’s a killer, he’s just … bad code.”

“Bad what?”

“Forget it.”

John didn’t forget it. He filed it away.

 

***

Something was wrong. Something more than tiredness. John had been closed in the bathroom, in the shower, for a long time.

Harold had gotten home first, after a challenging chess match. The deal he’d made with Carl Elias had to be honored. The man had done what they asked, in his words, “Shutting down Massey’s little hunting party.” That a hunter had slipped the net, abducting Annie, couldn’t be laid at his feet.

The prison surrounds were chilling but Harold had found Elias to be an interesting man. Frightening, and yet compelling. Even behind bars he wielded great power. That he was under John’s spell was evident, and by extension, extremely curious about Harold. The arrangement to play chess was an excuse, he thought at first, suspecting a ploy to get information from him. But the game itself had turned out to be serious; there was little talking. Harold won but not easily.

Very curious.

He’d gotten home to a quiet suite. No John, no Bear. John had also claimed an errand to run before calling the day done and his, apparently, was taking longer than Harold’s chess game. So Harold took the opportunity to wash away the two day’s worth of Riley Cavanaugh’s number. There was no sense of real success. They’d lost the young man. The only successes for Harold were that Annie survived and John came through it mostly unscathed.

His friend had been distant when he’d come in. Now, he seemed to be … taking a very long time. Harold decided it was time to go in and check on him.

The water shut off when he opened the bathroom door.

“You’ve been in here a while, John.”

“Guess I lost track,” he said, stepping out of the shower.

Harold handed him a bath towel and took another one from the stack. He gestured at the closed toilet.

“Sit,” he told him. John looked at him a moment, hesitating, and then wrapped the towel around his hips and did as Harold asked. Harold began drying him, using the towel to roughly caress his head, his hair, he worked firmly on his shoulders and back. “I have some arnica cream,” he told him, “it’s good for bruises.”

“I’m okay, Finch.”

“I don’t … think you are, John.” He stroked more gently with the towel on his lover’s bruised chest. “I’m not referring to your bruises.” He took the tube of arnica cream from the medicine cabinet, a staple for muscle trauma. He smoothed it over the darkened skin where John’s armor had taken the bullet. So close. “We’ve somehow been at odds today, cross purposes, maybe.”

“You don’t need to explain, Harold. I understand why the girl was more important to you.”

“You’re what’s important to me,” Harold said. “It may not be defensible. In fact, it contradicts what I hired you to do.” John looked up at him and Harold thought he could gaze into his face forever, see how light changed the color of his eyes, the play of shadow on the planes and angles of his cheeks and chin. His … mouth. “You were right about Riley, John. Everyone is … relevant. The truth is I don’t want to sacrifice you for anyone, not Riley, not Annie, not anyone.”

John didn’t look reassured though he’d responded warmly to the kiss.

***

John’s last bit of business to take care of hadn’t brought him any particular satisfaction. He hadn’t killed the scumbag who got his hands on Annie, ultimately costing Riley his life, but the guy might not make it if he didn’t get help in time. The truth was, John didn’t care.

If Harold knew how entrenched this violence was in him, would he still want to learn him inside and out, still want to hold him, caress him.

He lost track of time under the pounding of the hot water until the bathroom door opened and Harold was there. He needed to close off these feelings or he’d bring on the very thing he dreaded.

The toweling felt good. The things Harold said … were humbling. He was putting John ahead of anyone else. It was wrong but John allowed himself a sip of the love it expressed. The kiss was good, stirring some reconnection inside, but he felt like a thief.

“Earlier,” he asked him, “what did you mean when you said, bad code.” This shouldn’t be asked. He could make a pretty good guess at the answer, but the words were out of his mouth.

“It means a flawed design,” Harold said. “The term applies to machines, not to people. We have the ability to change, evolve.”

“Even killers,” John said, and knew he’d lost control of his words.

“Yes, John. Even killers. Even people who’ve committed unspeakable acts in the misguided belief they were making necessary choices.”

“Is that how you see me, Harold?” Unspeakable acts, misguided beliefs.

“It’s how I see myself,” the man said. The voices in John’s head fell silent, his thoughts losing direction. Harold meant this. Everything in his eyes said so.

“You’re no killer, Harold. You’re not bad code.”

“You’re the proof to me, John, that humans are not flawed by design.”

John could only absorb the meaning of this from the energy flowing beneath the words. The rush of it made him bury his face against Harold’s warm stomach, kissing him through the soft pajama shirt. He moaned appreciatively when he felt Harold’s fingers moving through his hair, the firm caress of his fingertips taking his tension, and for now, quieting his doubts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if there was too much episode quoting. I'm still feeling my way to the right balance.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wasn't sure this would be the end but I think it will do. This is the kind of story that's episodic, no overarching plot to resolve other than the dynamic of their coupling. Thank you to my readers!

Their latest number was playing havoc with Harold’s nerves. He had to find a way to get John close to the ace reporter, Maxine Angelis, without revealing anything to her about who they were or what they did. It upped their need for secrecy, exponentially. 

He’d downloaded her file notes from cloud storage to look for threats and found more than he bargained for. Angelis wasn’t just bent on exposing political corruption and unmasking the head of HR. She was also hot to plaster the man in the suit on the cover of every newspaper and magazine in the country; if she could prove he was real. John couldn’t afford to come charging out of the shadows to help her.

The squeak of Bear’s new toy distracted him.

“You’re not helping,” he told his dog.

“You bought it for him,” John reminded him. An error in judgement that Harold was regretting.

The toy was the new love of Bear’s life. He wouldn’t turn loose of it, keeping the big plush thing in his bed to gnaw on, to lick, and cuddle with when he slept. When he bit it just the right way it would squeal. The sound, sort of appealing at first, was becoming … extremely annoying. Harold wanted to take it away from him but couldn’t get past the look of innocent reproach in the big brown eyes.

John was doing nothing to improve Harold’s state of mind. He’d come back to the library after his initial scouting of Angelis and was cleaning some kind of mega weapon, all the parts spread out on the library table. Now he was reassembling it, slowly.

Harold’s discomfort around firearms seemed to have slipped his partner’s mind completely. It was either forgetfulness, or he just didn’t care. Either way, Harold was not happy. This particular oversized gun looked like it could launch a nuclear weapon. John was working on it with a methodical, singular devotion. The long, heavy barrel was blatantly … phallic, and the way John was handling it; did it really require all that oil and slow-motion rubbing?

“I do wish you wouldn’t do that here,” he said.

John gave him a deadpan look. “When I do it in the park, people look at me funny.”

Harold didn’t dignify this with a reply. He sighed in resignation and continued to pace while he tried to map out a strategy.

 

***

John didn’t share Harold’s admiration for the reporter, or his reverence for the press. To him it seemed like Angelis was courting danger. She was reckless. How was he supposed to protect someone like that and keep his own face off the front page?

Harold was the genius, let him figure it out. His own time was better spent cleaning his sniper rifle. It could be even better spent, he thought, glancing up at his partner. He could be holding Harold down and burying his face in his lap. He was pretty sure that right about now he could get those fly buttons open with his teeth.

Harold looked very appealing when he was concentrating on a problem, pacing and thinking out loud, getting frustrated. It made John want his attention, even though he knew he shouldn’t distract him. Maybe it was knowing he shouldn’t that made it so tempting.

He noted the disapproving glances at what he was doing and the thought occurred to him that he should probably have set the rifle up somewhere else to work on, but then he wouldn’t be able to watch Harold. Or tease him with it.

Bear seemed to have a similar attention-getting plan. The squeaky toy was working better than the gun. John observed that every time Harold got exasperated with the sound of the toy, instead of taking it away, he’d look at Bear and then melt a little. Sometimes he’d walk over and touch the toy as if to take it, but end up petting the dog instead. 

John was still waiting for Harold to walk over and pet him. He caught him watching him work the slide action on the rifle and tried tilting his head the way Bear did it. That dog was a genius. Harold melted a little and started walking toward him.

 

***

It was the last thing in the world he should be doing, but Harold forgave himself. Resisting that look on John’s face was not … possible.

Surrendered and flat on his back on the couch, Harold gave himself up to the moment. John was kneeling on the floor beside him, warm face pressed against him, kissing his now very taut erection, through his pants. He was doing something; gently biting, teasing, tugging and worrying at his fly with his teeth. The random touching and pressures were a brutal tease and Harold was struggling for control as the last button opened.

 

***

 

With a greater measure of calm and the taste of John still on his lips, Harold turned his attention back to the dilemma of Maxine Angelis. He discovered that she had an active online dating profile at a professional matchmaking site. It offered a perfect solution. He could tweak the site’s dating algorithm and create a perfect match for her in John.

There was an element of Cyrano DeBergerac to it. He was Cyrano, finding the perfect words to charm the girl for the sake of his hapless, but handsome, friend. She was a very bright woman with a love of literature and a grounding in nineteenth and twentieth century history. Harold found it interesting and pleasurable to court her, flirting by text and email throughout the day.

John didn’t seem that enthusiastic when Harold shared the plan with him. No matter, Harold thought. He’d set John up so perfectly that the simple addition of his handsome presence should do the trick. The glasses, he thought, would be an especially nice touch, lending his friend a slightly more intellectual appearance. Harold was looking forward to the date by the time the hour approached, like a composer about to hear his creation performed.

In anticipation, he poured himself a glass of wine and set out a wedge of cheese with a couple of ripe pears for his dinner. Things quickly went downhill from there.

It started with the car.

“New cufflinks I could understand, but buying a hundred thousand dollar sports car, was that really necessary?” he chided him.

“Relax, Finch. The car’s stolen.”

The man’s penchant for stealing cars drove him crazy and the missteps kept multiplying. Instead of gliding into the role Harold had prepared for him, John all but demolished his chances in less than a handful of minutes.

“Did you not read the notes I sent you?” Harold asked, though it was patently obvious that he hadn’t. “Okay. Time for reinforcements,” he announced. He hit Zoe Morgan’s number on speed dial.

He knew she was waiting for his call, having a drink at the restaurant bar. The plan had been for her to casually surprise John, mid-date, to raise his stock in the eyes of Angelis. Social psychology. Harold hadn’t expected to need her so soon.

Zoe, unlike John, played her part beautifully. What an amazing person she was, he thought. She’d been so charming when they spoke that afternoon, letting him know subtly that she was aware of the change in his relationship with John. Her warmth and approval meant a lot to him. 

He heard John whisper, “Finch have you on standby?”

Harold listened, relieved that she seemed to have smoothed things out. He took a sip of his wine. 

 

***

He’d been shadowing the number when Harold unveiled his brilliant plan. John wanted to strangle him.

“You’ve been flirting with her all day,” Harold said, brightly. Angelis, a few feet ahead of him at the crosswalk, flipped her hair and smiled at her phone.

“Finch, what did I just say to her?”

Harold’s answer was part of a running joke between him and the reporter. John vaguely recognized a literary reference (obscure and not funny.) It was the kind of thing that he wouldn’t have said in a million years.

He didn’t know what pissed him off more, how much Harold was enjoying himself, flirting with an attractive woman, or how dismal his chances were for passing himself off as the guy that Harold had created in her mind. Nice way to repay a guy for a kick-ass blow job, he thought, and then nixed the thought. He’d been more than repaid, but the afterglow was definitely gone.

John had never seduced a woman in his life. The women he’d been with had done all the work. Women like Jessica, Zoe … Kara, these women had wanted him and let him know it.

He took a look at the notes Harold sent to his phone. The file size alone was enough to depress him; a nonstarter. Just how much time had Harold devoted to this? John knew he’d just have to wing it.

The point of the flashy car was to punish Harold, not impress his date. First, by making him think he’d squandered a hundred grand of his money, then the pleasure of telling him he’d stolen it; pretty much guaranteed to annoy him. But Angelis wasn’t just unimpressed, she was borderline contemptuous; that he hadn’t counted on.

Unfortunately, face to face with his date, John was forced to admit how royally he was screwing up. He couldn’t afford to blow this. Harold was calling in the cavalry which turned out to be … Zoe. Her bailing him out was right on the edge of humiliating.

Don’t kick a man when he’s down, he thought, as Harold started a self-congratulatory lecture on the wonders of science and social psychology. John turned his earpiece off.

He could salvage this. He had one last ace up his sleeve.

“So, tell me about your job. What’s the most exciting story you’re working on right now?” It was a technique widely used by women on men in the olden days (he’d seen his mother use it on his dad) and it was still popular with hookers and international spies. He turned the conversational spotlight on the unsuspecting target and assumed an expression of interest.

Like a charm. The woman quickly warmed to the subject of her own interests and her passion to find the man in the suit. He slipped on the glasses that his partner had tucked in the breast pocket of his jacket, and sat back to listen. In his mind, he whispered, I got your science right here, Finch.

 

***

 

They’d moved back to the townhouse a few days before. In the familiar kitchen Harold brewed a decaf espresso with steamed milk while he waited for John to come home from the police station. 

Their number had morphed from victim to unwitting perpetrator before their eyes. Christopher Zambrano was dead. They’d been too late to save him.

The hot drink put him in mind of Grace and he said a silent prayer for her safety and happiness. This day had been a troubling journey and he was craving the sight of John’s face, his presence. In thinking of Grace he was grateful that she was not living the dangerous life that he now shared with John.

“You want to see him too?” he said to Bear. He’d taken him for a slow walk through the neighborhood. Only John could really provide the workouts Bear needed, but the Malinois always paced himself perfectly to Harold’s stride and seemed to be satisfied with the forays they made together.

John came through the kitchen door. He looked about as somber as Harold felt.

“We’re not done with this, Harold. We’ve got to find the bastard that killed Zambrano.”

“I know. She’s still in danger, and maybe more determined than ever.”

John sat down at the table with a sigh. He reached for Harold’s cup, inhaled the aroma and took a sip.

“Not bad.”

“I’ll make one for you,” he offered. It was strange, but it was a small happy thing to share a ritual with John that had been part of his life with Grace.

***

The day’s many switch-ups and screw-ups had buried John’s annoyance, but he still wondered if somewhere inside, Maxine Angelis had stirred Harold’s longing for a petite, redheaded woman with sparkly eyes; someone who shared his passion for art, literature, and music. John could try to broaden his cultural horizons but he would never be a petite woman, never be a soft little person Harold could gather in his arms.

The milky drink wasn’t bad. Not really John’s taste, but he felt the urge, seeing him sitting there, cradling the cup in his hands, to share whatever it was that Harold was taking comfort in. The obvious pleasure it gave him to prepare it and serve it to him, made it more than worth the effort for John to drink a cup of hot coffee-flavored milk.

 

***

 

“Bear’s even cuter than his picture. He seems to really like that closet,” she said.

“His … treats are in there.” Harold uttered a silent groan in his hiding place.

Another day and another date. This charade, he thought, was turning into a third rate bedroom farce. Only there was nothing funny about being the one hidden in the closet.

Harold’s heart was racing and he hardly dared to breathe. He was stuck in the loft’s pantry. It had been a mad dash to get Bear to “John Anderson’s” apartment when he realized he had the dog she would be expecting to meet. With seconds to spare he’d had no choice but to hide.

Then, his eyes growing accustomed to the low light he saw that he was surrounded by mounted guns, knives, grenades … enough weaponry for a small army. His jaw dropped as he took it all in and he could barely attend to what Maxine and John were saying.

He thought he heard John offer to spend the night on the couch. Thank god for that.

Just when it seemed like he might be trapped all night, she excused herself to take out her contacts. 

“When were you ever going to need all those?” he hissed in a whisper to John, pointing at the closet. John wasn’t answering, leading him toward the front door. “You shouldn’t have brought her back here. Even the best cover just goes so deep. The longer she stays the more questions she’ll have.”

“Imagine how many questions she’ll have if she comes out and sees you here.” John looked so much like he wanted to kiss him that Harold stopped scolding him, and let himself be rushed out the door.

 

***

It was with intense relief that John received a good bye kiss from Maxine Angelis and the nearly three-day ordeal came to an end. He was headed home to Harold, who’d promised to cook a pasta dinner for him, like the first one they’d shared at the townhouse.

“You know, Harold, I have done some reading in my time,” he said as he walked. He’d prepared his own literary allusion to please his lover. “There’s a classic story I have a new appreciation for after this number.”

“Really, Mr Reese. I’m delighted. Enlighten me.” John smiled, imagining Harold in front of the stove in his apron. He was almost home and hoping Harold would still be wearing it when he got there.

“Now I know how tough it was for Superman to protect Lois Lane while he was disguised as Clark Kent.”

“Poor Superman,” Harold laughed, as John had hoped he would.

“Of course, he had it worse. No one to come home to.”

It came out a bit rougher than he meant it to. He’d reached the stairs to the kitchen. Like the first time, the toasted aromas of butter and spices, of warm bread welcomed him. The sense of being taken in and having a home was slightly overwhelming. He heard the scrambling sound of Bear at the door and opened it to find him eagerly offering his favorite plush toy as a welcome.

“No squeak?” John said.

Harold turned from the stove, the apron still on, John was happy to see, and held up a small plastic bulb.

“The surgery was a success, squeaker removed.”

This night was much better than the first time around, John thought. He could enjoy his arousal from the heat in Harold’s gaze, reach across the table to stroke his wrist, toast him with wine and think about kissing him, knowing exactly how good it would feel. Not the least of his pleasures was provoking his partner’s adorable frowns, he got one for each scrap of buttered bread he fed to the dog.

 

***

In the dark, in bed, Harold was settled in his best sleeping position with John curled up against his back. He was drifting off but drawn back when John started speaking, quietly.

“Harold do you ever miss having a partner who’s small … and feminine?”

Harold found John’s hand under the covers and squeezed it.

“I love you exactly … precisely as you are,” Harold told him, struggling to keep his eyes open. He judged from the relaxed sigh that was John’s response, he believed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was the closest I ever tried to stick to canon and it was both rewarding and nerve wracking!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [What Did I Do?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11931201) by [merionees](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merionees/pseuds/merionees)




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